I was on the phone with my mother the other day while at my grandmother’s. Will walked into the kitchen. I was telling her about our spat about going down to Florida. He (in a very irate voice) exclaimed, “Geez Helena, why do you always have to villify me?!”
Two seconds later I had handed the phone off to him and found msyelf in the hallway. The rest of my family was in the living room, oblivious. I wanted to go to the roof but I knew the elevator wouldn’t go up to the 9th floor- closed off. So I took the stairs. The door at the top was locked. Actually I didn’t check. I saw the sign that said the roof was offlimits for Mardi Gras so I just sat on the top step and cried.
I’m quiet when I cry, unless I know there’s no way for anyone to hear me. Sometimes its just a steady stream of tears that make my eyes sting. My left eye stings too now which doesn’t make any sense. I know that never happened before the accident but my left eye was unaffected.
This time it was sobbing. I couldn’t even figure out what it was that upset me. I started hyperventilating. No one came to look for me.
When I got back downstairs no one asked where I’d gone. All someone said was, “You need to call your mother.”
Will told me, “You need to let Mom know you’re ok.”
I couldn’t even form words for a response. I tensed, shrugged it off. Simply refused.
My mother is one of the worst people in the world to talk to when you’re upset. She doesn’t try to comfort you. All she does is stand there and say in an exasperated voice, “My god why are you crying! Good god what’s wrong?! Please just stop crying.” Not exactly comforting. She doesn’t want to hear anything other than the words, “I’m ok.”
So I can’t talk to her when I’m upset, or near upset. I’ve gotten to the point where so long as I’m not on the verge of cutting, I can force myself to say “Ok, fine, alright.” It’s when someone asks and I pause that I know I’m not really ok. But I’m surviving. Is that good enough?
Everyone kept telling me I needed to call her. I needed to call her to let her know I was alright. She was worried. And how dare I let her go one minute worrying. It was infuriating. My uncle was the only one who even hazarded a guess, “Oh is something wrong in paradise?” I ignored him. Ignored my grandmother. Ignored everyone. Started to hate them, despise them. I had to keep from talking lest I berate them. They hadn’t done anything.
I’ve never wanted to bleed so much in my entire life. It’s a good thing I don’t keep the X-acto knife in my purse anymore, I would’ve used it. By the time I got back to my apartment the self destructive phase had passed. Got online, talked to Kris. Other people. It’s easier sometimes just to type it. Something about forming the words with lips and tongue, hearing them out loud… makes it harder. Typing it is easy. And more constructed. You can write it out, backspace, write it out again. Or just type a bunch all at once, stream of consciousness.
I find myself withdrawing more and more. Withdraw to cry, withdraw to talk, if it weren’t for the fact that my brother wants to go to my grandmother’s I probably wouldn’t have gone over there at all over the past couple of days. Just locked myself in my room and slept. Productive.
The less contact I have with others the less things will set me off, right? I won’t get annoyed, irritated, destructive.
I put my X-acto knife in my purse this afternoon before going over to the parade. Just in case. I had planned to spend the night over there, for some reason the thought of sleeping in another place without that stupid thing freaked me out.
I don’t even use it that often. Once last week. Before that once weeks before. Maybe half a dozen times since the beginning of last semester. No, less than that. 2 or 3 times. Half a half a dozen. Maybe 4. Maybe 5. I just want it there. The option. I could count the scars. The skin below my left elbow is white in places from repeated scabs. Whenever I cut the first scratch bleeds, the rest are just red. But they scab over.
I see the psychiatrist on Thursday. I wonder how I’ll tell him.
“I cut.”
“I have cut.”
“This is what’s going on in my life right now. This is what happened over the summer. This is what happened a couple of years ago…
…oh yeah, once when I was really depressed I took a knife…”
I wonder what he’ll say. Most people don’t get it. That’s such a teen angsty thing to say, heh… and I’m no longer a teen so I don’t have that excuse anymore.
He’ll probably put me on medication.
I don’t want medication. I want death. Hit by a car. Gunshot. Long slow illness. Something that doesn’t require me to do it myself. I’m not suicidal, not in the active sense. I want to die, I just don’t want to kill myself. Maybe that makes me a coward. Or confused. Or just a stupid teen angsty 22 year old who doesn’t want to face her problems, whatever the hell they are.
I wonder if I’ll make this entry public or private. My roommates will see it. Kris too. Kris I don’t mind, she knows all this stuff. My roommates however, they don’t. The’ll read it… wonder what to say… not know…
Like I don’t know about Kiota. There’s nothing to say. Nothing to do. Just be conscious of the events, the situation, and let it tear you up inside. Cave diving is so easy. You either survive, or you die. If your buddy has an emergency you get him to the surface. There’s no guesswork. No assumptions, whatifs. Over Thanksgiving I didn’t cave dive every day because I was afraid that I’d put msyelf in a situation that would get me killed. That subconsciously I’d make a mistake just so that I wouldn’t make it out. That thought didn’t scare me. It was the fact that my parents would be trying to do something to get me out. That they might die.
The problem with depression isn’t the cutting, the suicidal thoughts, or the complete self-hatred. It’s worrying about the other people around you. Friends, family. What can you tell them, what can’t you tell them. If you know there’s nothing they can say to help you, why let them worry? Only problem is it gets to the point where there’s nothing else to tell them. Shut them out. Avoid. Then they think you hate them, when in fact it’s just the opposite.
Meph. I don’t know. And this has gone on long enough.